by submission | May 21, 2024 | Story |
Author: Majoki
Francis was helping the elderly lady cross a busy street when the call came. He waited until she’d thanked him with a little pat on the arm and entered the drugstore even though the shelves were almost bare.
His phone was still buzzing. Oscar. He hesitated, but knew that was impolite and so answered. “Hey. Is it on?”
“Good morning, Francis. Kindness always starts with a heartfelt greeting. How is your day going? ”
Francis looked around at the drifts of garbage banked against derelict cars and boarded up storefronts where ragged streeters roamed. Cursing and heavy bass pounded down from broken windows. The neighborhood reeked of urine, streetcamp smoke, and despondency.
“A gracious morning to you, too, Oscar. It’s another bountiful day here in Bel-Air.” He paused as needling sirens wailed from Oscar’s end. “I trust that all is serene in Coral Gables?”
“Peaceful as the dark side of the moon, Francis.”
“Heartfelt greetings aside, is it on?”
Oscar’s answer was light and airy, “Everyone knows nice guys finish last.”
Francis froze. “We’re really going to do this?”
“All is ready. All is right. It’s been a delight, Francis.”
“Same. Same, Oscar…”
Choked of words, Francis ended the call. It was on. All was ready. All was right. But it would not be a delight.
He straightened his suit jacket, tugged his tie tighter, and began walking, faster and faster. Twenty minutes brought him to the target intersection. Literally, a crossroads. Here, it would begin and end for him. A Nice Guy.
At last, it was time to finish. Finish off the greedy egomaniacs and arrogant exploiters who fed off the everyday decency, compassion, kindness, and forgiveness of hard-working folks.
If Francis crossed the road in front of him, there would be no going back. This wasn’t helping some old lady across the street, this was wheeling the Trojan Horse right up to the gates. And he was the nasty surprise.
A Nice Guy.
One of thousands who’d smiled, nodded, and played the role of a mild, easy going, thoughtful, regular nice guy. Until he’d met Oscar and become a Nice Guy. A neo-humanist cabal intent on killing with kindness. He was about to play his part in the most polite apocalypse ever.
All Francis had to do, like thousands of his counterparts, was walk across the street into the fortress-like building where years of being a courteous and compliant employee had finally gained him access to a critical international financial net node. He just had to sit at his desk, log in, and smile infectiously.
That was it. The heuristic-algorithmic malware in his dental implants would worm its way past the firewall and do the rest. Oscar had assured him that he would feel nothing, but the global market system, all fiscal exchange networks, the very foundations of the digital-financial-industrial complex would be struck by viral lightning.
And then a lightening. A numbing darkness dispersed. A crushing weight lifted. Monetary imperialism would crumble under the politest of apologies, the humblest of regrets. Every electronic financial trade and transaction request across the globe would be instantly rejected by the words of the original Nice Guy himself, HAL: “I’m sorry. I’m afraid I can’t do that.”
by Julian Miles | May 20, 2024 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
Nine at night and residential roads are empty. Everybody is safe inside, either working or enjoying approved leisure activities. Meanwhile, on the intercity hyperways, traffic provides cover for duels between the dishonest and the diligent.
My control board emits an annoying bleep. Somebody is being exceptionally diligent.
“Unidentified perpetrator, westbound on the Coastal hyperway. Stop now or we will deploy countermeasures that may endanger your life.”
Now there’s a voice I haven’t heard for a couple of years.
“Hello, Constable O’Conner.”
There’s a pause.
“That you, Nat?”
Good memory.
“Hi, Tuhina. How’s life treating you?”
“It’s Sergeant O’Conner.”
No surprise there.
“Congrats.”
“Thanks.”
I split-screen, then let the other Trefoil slide into the outside lane and accelerate to 400kph. I love the Coastal, it has no corners tighter than ten degrees.
“Smooth power-up, Nat. What are you piloting these days?”
Ah-ah. No clues.
“Still running my old Trefoil. You mean you haven’t got an image yet?”
“Your ‘old Trefoil’ has some remarkable anti-detection technology. My team are telling me it’s so new it’s likely military. Probably loot from that raid at Aldershot last week.”
You think that’s well-hidden? Just wait.
“There’s no challenge if I tell. You’d be disappointed.”
“I’m more disappointed that you’re still stealing. Were you involved in the assault and Dargurrium heist at Ashford Spaceport earlier?”
Sadly, yes. I hate working with amateurs, especially when they’re violent, but needs must.
“I’m just a driver, Tuhina. But I did pick up this cargo south of the spaceport.”
“You’re a lot more than a driver. You’re a planner. I’ve done my homework on you, Nathaniel Rupert Barslan.”
Fame at last. Whoopee.
Passing Southampton, I accelerate to 600kph, then reach across and switch the main to autopilot. I need to concentrate on not crashing.
“That’s quite the pace you’re setting. You do realise we have drones that are faster?”
Of course I do. I’m relying on them.
“You do realise it’ll cost you one to stop me?”
“Good chance you’ll die.”
“We had this conversation last time. Same answers: I’m not stopping, and you’ll not catch me.”
“Last time I gave you the benefit of my doubt.”
The view lurches to the left, tilts upward, shows a dizzying display of sky and tarmac, then breaks down into static.
Her voice is a whisper.
“Not this time. Sorry.”
Decisive. I like that.
“Forgiven, Tuhina.”
“You’re still alive! Hang on, Nat, the crash crews should be with you in about ten minutes.”
“Okay.”
Switching back to manual, I keep going north on the MM3 hyperway, apparently a transplant courier on the way to Manchester. Licensed to travel at 800kph, ten minutes will put me over a hundred kilometres away. After a brief stop at a service station, I’ll be heading into Wales as a bonded courier with MOD clearance. We didn’t just steal stealth tech from Aldershot.
By the time anybody guesses what probably happened, I’ll be on holiday. The stealth tech netted me a fortune. The Dargurrium’s for a trade to get me offworld.
Until then, all I have to do is drive.
“Still with me, Nat?”
I check the timer. Eight minutes elapsed – there’s the service station.
“Where else would I be?”
“If you’re as smart as only I think, my crash team is watching a decoy Trefoil burn.”
Oh, you’re good.
“That would be quite the feat, Sergeant. Too much for a buster like me.”
There’s a pause, then she whispers.
“You stealthy gearhead bastard. You’re gone again, aren’t you?”
“Catch you next heist, Tuhina.”
There’s a pause, then I hear her laugh.
“That’s my line.”
by submission | May 18, 2024 | Story |
Author: Aubrey Williams
I’ve been trying to figure things out. For no reason, I found myself on the side of a lonely road somewhere. I felt like I’d been asleep for too long on a hot day, and couldn’t quite remember what I was doing. It was quiet, with only the sound of distant sky traffic and grasshoppers, the buckled aluminium of the old crash barrier swaying on its unsteady mounting. I was starting to panic— where the hell was I? I didn’t have my phone on me, so I walked along the road until an AirTram appeared. The driving unit remarked it was a warm day, and that traffic in town was bad, my fellow passengers glumly looking up.
My first port of call was a café, but the three coffees didn’t help. They tasted of nothing, so I figured I had a cold. I couldn’t have looked weird, because people either acknowledged or smiled at me. I even checked the mirror, and I’ve never looked better. Nothing unusual, right? That changed when I popped into my regular haunt, the bar opposite the library. Maybe I drank too much and wandered off in a stupor? As soon as I entered, I could see a few of my friends: Pete from the AirTram yard, Weng-Chi who I had a life-drawing class with, Odie— my fellow gin enthusiast— and so on.
“Oh hell no, you fuck right off!” Weng-Chi said, looking up from his pinball game.
“Hey, what g—”
I couldn’t get a word in edgeways before Odie pushed his drink away, not even looking at me, and retreated into the gents. Pete sized me up, and then turned to the bartender, Akira.
“I told you, she’s not doing well.”
Akira sighed, her hands gripping the edge of the bar, before she glared.
“You’re not welcome here… J.D. You need to leave.”
No one was forthcoming, and I got a weird feeling being there. I left for the park, my head spinning and my stomach full of cotton wool. Soon enough I spied my girlfriend, Vee, her arms clasped tightly around an old book.
“Hey, hon! What—”
She screamed, nearly dropping her book, and held up her palm as if to ward me off, backing away.
“Oh fuck! Fuck! No, no, no! You can’t… she did… leave me alone!”
She burst into tears and loped off.
The only thing I could do after that was head over to my mum’s place.
“Sweetie! You were gone! I was worried sick about you!” She said, as she hugged me close. “What happened?”
“I don’t know, mum, it was such a weird day. I was at the side of a road… I’m going to lie down in my room.”
“No!” She yelped, holding me back “Please don’t disturb… Oh, I should never have tried that silly trick,” she sighed looking at me with pity. “I’m so sorry to have confused you… I just needed you to be here a little longer, that’s all.”
She activated her watch, and asked for “Memory Pal Support.” As she waited for the other person on the end of the line, she looked me up and down.
“I guess you ended up being a lot more like J.D. than I expected.”
The watch lit up, light so furious I couldn’t see.
“Mum, what’s going—”
+++Another jailbroken unit… I almost feel sorry for them. Understandable after a sudden accident like that, but we need for control over what people can do with the Memory Pal units. Poppy, would you wipe and reset this one, and load customer profile #EFN_90_JD00112?+++
by submission | May 17, 2024 | Story |
Author: Hillary Lyon
“Watcha got there?” Mik-taa’s co-pilot asked, watching her unfold a large map on a table in the ship’s galley.
“It’s a map,” she replied, not looking up.
“No duh,” Bix scoffed. “Even I recognize old tech maps like that. Whatcha looking for? Going somewhere?”
Mik-taa ignored him. She smoothed the creases in the map and ran her finger along a path somebody inked long ago. A trek of phosphorescent dashes leading from their home world to—
“Well?” Bix insisted. Mik-taa kept her finger on the map and looked up. It was obvious Bix wasn’t going away until she talked to him.
“I’m not planning anything. Look,” Mik-taa said, returning her focus to the map, “I found this stowed in the back of a cabinet below decks. Behind a stack of ancient external hard drives. I wondered what it was, so here I am. Okay?”
As she spoke, Bix moved up behind her to peer over her shoulder. “That’s a star map of the outer galaxy,” he said. “Probably several hundred years old. I’m surprised doesn’t crumble beneath your finger. It belongs in a museum.”
Mik-taa continued tracing the path beneath her fingertip. Bix reached over and placed his finger ahead of hers on the map. “There’s your destination! The edge of the galaxy. A little solar system floating on the fringe.” He leaned closer to me map and squinted. “Path ends at a tiny planet.”
“Wonder what’s there, what’s so important some one had to leave a trail of crumbs.” Mik-taa straightened up. “Hey, we’ve finished our run,” she said making eye contact with Bix, something she rarely did. “And we’re not far from this planet, so…”
“Sure,” Bix said, smiling. He loved it when Mik-taa’s eyes met his. It sent chills from the top of his head to the tip of his tail. The scales along his spine flared and rested. Good thing he was wearing his uniform; otherwise, his response would be embarrassing—especially if she didn’t feel the same way. He cleared his throat. “Let’s see where it leads.”
* * *
They were in the upper atmosphere of the little green and blue world before Mik-taa could finish her energy drink. Modern interstellar travel was like that; but Mik-taa fretted: How nice it would have been to take our time, to really do some sight-seeing along the way. She felt a wave of nostalgia for an experience she’d never had.
Bix interrupted her musing. “Let’s dip a bit closer to the surface. I’ll skip over the water—”
“There’s so much of it!” Mik-taa softly laughed. “Do you think the treasure is sunk below?”
Her laughter sent delicious ripples under his thorny scalp. “Nah.” He answered, adjusting the ship’s settings. “Let’s scan the land masses.”
“Look!” Mik-taa pointed to the video screen above the control panel. “What a beautiful design!”
Bix looked up. On screen was a gorgeous, intricate pattern inlaid in a field of… Bix wasn’t sure. Probably some crop particular to this planet. He recognized the pattern’s style, though.
“That,” he said, pointing to the screen, “is the work of the genius reclusive artist, Moltier. I studied him at the academy; I’d know his work anywhere. This installation—it’s not in his known catalog.”
“So it is treasure!” Mik-taa squealed.
“It is. And he’s likely created others here.” Bix reached over and touched her hand. “We’ll spend as much time as we need to explore.” An electric thrill passed between them. “I guarantee there’s more to come.”
by submission | May 16, 2024 | Story |
Author: David Dumouriez
Rex sleeps a lot more than they do. Well, that’s not so difficult: they don’t sleep! Instead they put themselves on standby, which complicates matters for Rex when he wakes up. Sadly, whatever he does, he can’t make them hear him as he lacks the capacity to return them to their version of consciousness.
And, just as frustratingly as far as Rex is concerned, eating is another thing they don’t need to do. But despite having never experienced that dreaded ache, they clearly get the concept of it because when they’re fully activated they fill his bowl. In fact, it’s one of the first tasks they attend to. He finds that if he shouts a bit, or sings, he often gets a second portion quite soon afterwards. Sometimes, depending on how much he pleases them, it might even be a more exotic or more delicious meal. Something meaty and juicy rather than dry and crunchy.
And they’re not stingy with play either. They love to work him hard and indulge his seemingly endless physical energy. He’ll run all day for them. Catch things, chase objects. Climb. Swim. He’s nothing if not versatile. He can’t work out whether they’re unable to do these things themselves, or whether they just choose not to. In any case, he’s too busy with such activities to analyse events to any great extent. He pushes himself to the limit, then claims the sleep that’s necessary for him to repair his body.
In the meantime, they do whatever it is they do. They’re double his size, so he can’t see clearly what’s going on at their level. The only time he’s roughly equal to them is when they pick him up for some reason. In truth, he doesn’t always want this, but he has to go along with it. (He did try struggling once, but it didn’t end well.) Maybe they do this so they can see him better. Or, to be fair to them, to give him a sense of their appreciation. Other times it seems to be a way to test his powers of landing after they throw him down. It sounds rougher than it is. Actually, he likes it. Sometimes – just sometimes – they dropkick him. That’s not so good. Still, he doesn’t really blame them. The pain lasts longer than the memory of it.
Oh, and there are other things they don’t do. Well, if you don’t eat or drink, you don’t have to worry about any kind of irrigation … But fortunately they provide a little area for that. And magically it’s all much cleaner than it could be.
Also, Rex never sees them interacting. Not like he does, at least. On the other hand, they frequently witness him performing. They even facilitate it! They introduce another specimen into his area, or maybe take him somewhere else to commit the act. Then they, and others that he doesn’t recognise, watch whatever happens and monitor the results. It appears that satisfaction is ensured all round!
Nothing’s perfect, of course. But Rex is quite content. Being human, you see, is really not that bad when all’s said and done.
by submission | May 15, 2024 | Story |
Author: Emily Kinsey
A high-pitched scream tore into the night air, and Jules, leaning against the battered frame leading into her little brother’s room, uncrossed her arms and reflexively placed her hands over her ears.
“Mom, can’t you get him to shut up?” Jules asked. “He’ll wake the neighborhood.”
“He has nightmares,” Jules’ mother said over her shoulder.
“He is a nightmare,” Jules muttered.
“Hunter, sweetie, come out, it’s time for bed,” their mother said, kneeling on her hands and knees, trying to coax her son from the inner depths of his bedroom closet. “You need sleep.”
“I can’t sleep, the Grey’s are coming!”
“Nothing is coming, Hunter,” Jules said from the doorway. “Mom, seriously, the neighbors will call the cops.”
“Hunter, honey, you want your blankie?” their mother asked. “You’re not too old for your lovey.”
“No!” Hunter shouted from the darkened closet.
“Hunter, enough,” their mother said. “Get in bed! Nothing is coming for you, baby, I promise.”
“You’re a liar!” Hunter yelled.
“Honey, I am not a liar. Why would you say that?”
“Because that’s what you say every night!” Hunter shouted. “And it’s a lie! They come every night!”
“Who comes every night?”
“Aliens. The Greys.”
Their mother leaned back on her heels, distracted. “I had a dream about this last night.”
“Déjà vu,” Jules whispered. She felt it too.
“It wasn’t a dream,” Hunter pleaded, emerging from the closet. He looked older to Jules, wiser than his eight years. “And it’s not déjà vu. The Greys are coming. They come every night. Each day repeats itself, and I’m the only one who remembers.”
“Hunter, dial the crazy down to a zero, okay?” Jules said. Goosebumps prickled her arms. “Nothing is—”
The room was suddenly encased in a blinding pale blue light. The wall to Jules’ left billowed and pulled apart silently, disappearing into the night sky.
“Prepare yourselves, what comes next is the worst part,” Hunter said as the room was enveloped in white mist. He darted from the closet and sprinted past Jules. Grabbing her wrist, he pulled her into the hallway. Jules quickly lost sight of her mother in the thick mist.
“Get away from it!” Hunter shouted to Jules.
“What have we tried?” Jules asked. She no longer doubted Hunter.
“Everything,” Hunter said, backing down the hallway and eyeing the intruding mist. “Knives, baseball bats, the fire poker, UV light, water…they’re invincible. They hate loud noises, but the mist deafens all sound. They come in the mist.”
“What do they do when they catch us?”
“Use your imagination.”
Deep dread hit the pit of Jules’ stomach as she thought of her mother. “What do they want from us?”
“Not us, Jules. You. They want you.”
“Me?”
“I’ve tried everything, but they just restart the day over again. They told me last time…it’ll stop if I give them you.”
“Hunter!”
“I’m sorry; I just can’t live another day like this.”
Staunchly, Hunter grabbed his sister and pushed her into the mist. He heard her muted scream as she disappeared into the vapor, and saw a thin, gray claw clamp down on her wrist.
“There, she’s yours!” Hunter yelled into the white abyss. “We had a deal! Now leave me alone!” The mist growled in response, and Hunter, who knew what each growl meant by now, nodded in silent satisfaction. He watched the mist retreat into his bedroom, where it slipped outside. The wall slid back into place, and Hunter was left in eerie, beautiful silence.
“I did it,” Hunter whispered. He fell to the floor and cradled his head. “I’m free. It’s finally over.”
